


In Which the Darkness is Warmer than the Light

by bandgeek312118914520



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Inexperienced Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Parent!lock, Post-Season/Series 04, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandgeek312118914520/pseuds/bandgeek312118914520
Summary: Something's different tonight, and John has never been one to waste an opportunity.+++This is the first fic I've ever written, and by no means can I guarantee that it will be good. I've read tons of amazing, beautiful, and heart-wrenching fics that I know I'll go back to time and time again, but no matter how great they were, I always thought I'd do something a little different. I'd resigned myself to being a forever reader, but never a writer, so really, the inspiration to write this was on a whim. Either way, I hope someone else can find a little pleasure in reading this. Enjoy!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My VERY inactive Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard

John was ready.

He’d gotten caught up at the surgery tonight, one and a half hours late for picking up Rosie at Mrs. Hudson’s.

He ran up the steps to 221B, frantically grabbing for his keys. He crossed the entryway, steeling himself for Mrs. Hudson’s inevitable admonishments, but when the door to her flat opened, he was met with a loving smile instead.

“Sherlock picked her up an hour ago,” she said amiably. Her eyes softened. “He loves her almost as much as you, you know.”

Choosing not to analyze the two possible meanings of that statement, John instead thanked her and made his way up the steps to the flat. Hearing nothing on the other side of the door, he gently pushed it open and walked in. The sight laid out before him stopped him in his tracks.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room, holding Rosie and rocking her slowly. He had one hand under her bum to support her, and the other softly carding through her little head hairs. Rosie was lying her head on his shoulder, snoozing. Their silhouettes were outlined in a warm orange glow radiating from the fire in the hearth, which flickered faintly. The embers needed to be poked.

“I got home from Bart’s early,” Sherlock murmured without turning towards John, his voice a deep rumble.

The smile that reached John’s lips was full of fondness, and his eyes shone with sentiment.

Sherlock turned towards him to continue talking. “Yes, she has been fed, bathed, and changed. She’s ready to be put down.”

John snapped out of his reverie and stepped closer to the two of them. “Her bedtime _was_ half an hour ago,” he teased, grateful for all that Sherlock had already taken care of.

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, then looked down towards Rosie. “I suppose I… just wanted to hold her for a bit.” 

Even in the low light of a late London evening, and with Sherlock’s head turned down, John thought he saw a faint flush cross Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Hey.” He took another step towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his elbow, encouraging him to raise his eyes back to John’s. “Thank you,” John smiled. 

Sherlock stared for a brief moment, then huffed lightly. “It was nothing.”

 _Oh, he’s definitely blushing_ , John thought impishly.

They stayed like that for a minute, watching Rosie sleep peacefully in Sherlock’s arms, taking in the hazy crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of London at night.

Sherlock shuffled a bit before speaking. “Could I…?”

“Put her to bed?” John’s smile grew wider.

He nodded.

“Of course. I’ll come with you.”

Sherlock led the way to John’s room, cautiously taking the steps that would creak the least so as to not disturb Rosie. John’s heart fluttered.

As Sherlock lowered Rosie down into her crib and ran one last hand through her hair, John thought about how much Sherlock had changed over the years. John always knew he was cared for, even in the beginning. Sherlock may have been a royal pain in the arse, and may have disappointed John more than once, but he never, _ever_ , acted in any way to deliberately hurt John. In his heart of hearts, John knows that Sherlock faking his… that what happened at Bart’s was necessary, necessary to keep everyone Sherlock loved safe. And that included him. But now, after he’d returned, after Mary, after Eurus, after _everything_ , John knew that something had changed. Sherlock was ever the genius, his brain a train speeding along three tracks at once, but now he had… softened.

He sulked less, seeing the negative effect it had on Rosie’s own mood; he quit putting himself and John in extreme danger if he could help it; he spent more time playing with Rosie and enduring Mrs. Hudson’s long stories over tea. He was open. Honest. John thought this development suited him, seeing the growing number of sincere smiles that crossed his face every day. 

The one thing John didn’t like was Sherlock’s new tendency to hesitate when it came to John. They still laughed and talked, solved cases together, bickered over whose turn it was to get the milk. But now Sherlock seemed plagued by an apprehension that John had never seen in him, like he was afraid that one wrong move would have John and Rosie running for the hills. John hated it.

 _Though, I suppose it’s my own fault he feels this way_ , John couldn’t help thinking. His little stunt two months earlier had shook the ground beneath their feet, splintering the certainty of the nature of their relationship. 

_I need to fix this_ , John thought, watching Sherlock saunter back to the doorway. _Now_.

  
  
  


+++

  
  
  


**_2 MONTHS EARLIER_ **

John sat in his uncomfortable leather chair. In his stifling house. In the _goddamn_ suburbs. Alone. Alone, bottle in hand, and miles away from Sherlock. 

He’d put Rosie down hours ago, and with the comfort of knowing she’s been sleeping through the night for the last couple weeks, allowed himself the luxury of relaxing with a cold beer… A few cold beers. 

_I have a high tolerance, anyway_ , he placated himself.

His thoughts drifted to his old life at Baker Street; it was difficult to think of anything else, these days. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush, his admiration of Sherlock’s deductions… of Sherlock. He wondered what Sherlock was doing right now. 

They’d last spoken a week ago, after concluding a case. It was late, but Sherlock had invited him to dinner, a sliver of hope in his eyes alongside overwhelming resignation. It seemed like Sherlock knew John was going to decline before John did.

“I have to relieve the nanny,” he’d said. It was true, so why did it feel like a lie?

Sherlock had looked dejected, as he always did when John turned him down, his emotions playing openly on his face more often than they used to. John wondered when the day would come that Sherlock would just stop asking.

He missed Sherlock. His brilliance and sharp wit and whirlwind personality. He missed the excitement he never failed to feel in his presence, and the way he cooed at Rosie when he thought John wasn’t looking. 

He missed his eyes: flecks of gold beneath a swirling coral reef. His lips, bow-shaped and full. The way his arse moved under his perfectly fitted-

 _Stop_ , John sighed. _If I’m going to be the one to ignore him, I don’t deserve to think about him like that._

 _Then why are you ignoring him?_ a stray thought broke loose in his head.

 _What else is there to do? He’s probably tired of my excuses_ , John responded bitterly.

_Are you so sure about that?_

John considered. Was he sure? He glanced down at where his phone lay on the side table. Without thinking, he reached for it, and found Sherlock’s name in his messages.

**_Sent 23:49_ **

Shrlck

  
  


_Fuck, more drunk than I thought I was._

  
  


**_Received 23:49_ **

John. SH

**_Sent 23:50_ **

I mss youu

  
  


Too much time elapsed before Sherlock’s reply came, and John grew uneasy. _I hope this wasn’t a huge mistake._

  
  


**_Received 23:55_ **

As do I. SH

**_Sent 23:55_ **

I wannna come hime

**_Sent 23:55_ **

home

**_Sent 23:56_ **

to You

**_Received 23:58_ **

John, you’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight. SH

  
  


John huffed in anger. What did Sherlock know?

 _Everything_ , the unhelpful voice in his head reminded him.

John tried to calm down before responding. If he knew one thing, fury and blame would only drive them further apart. And that’s the last thing he needed right now.

  
  


**_Sent 00:01_ **

Im serrious

  
  


John could practically feel Sherlock writing a rebuttal through the phone, so he quickly typed another message.

  
  


**_Sent 00:02_ **

finw yes im a littlw tipsy 

**_Sent 00:02_ **

BUT

**_Sent 00:03_ **

I knoe what im talkingg about

**_Received 00:03_ **

More than a little, I’d wager. SH

  
  


John’s will was starting to falter. This might not have been the best idea, after all.

 _One more time_ , he thought desperately. _One more attempt, then I’ll stop bothering him._

  
  


**_Sent 00:04_ **

Sherlock. please

**_Sent 00:04_ **

I mis you, and I know Rosie doess too

**_Sent 00:05_ **

I knoe what i wannt and its back att baker st

  
  


John tried not to think of the implications of that last message as he sent one more plea.

  
  


**_Sent 00:05_ **

Please

  
  


John’s hand started to shake as time passed, and he had to set down his phone. He was just about to give up and call it a night when he heard a _ding_ , overly loud in the quiet room.

  
  


**_Received 00:19_ **

I’ll be by in the morning to help you and Rosie pack. SH

**_Received 00:19_ **

Get some sleep. SH

  
  


John’s smile was so wide, he thought his face might split in two.

  
  


**_Sent 00:20_ **

thaank you, Sherlock

**_Sent 00:20_ **

gooodnight

  
  


John thought for a moment, and before he could convince himself not to, sent one more message. Whether he did this because he was drunk or drunk on happiness, he wasn’t sure.

  
  


**_Sent 00:21_ **

:)

  
  


Just as John was about to set his phone down for the night, it chimed one more time.

  
  


**_Received 00:23_ **

Goodnight, John. SH

  
  
  


+++

  
  
  


**_PRESENT TIME_ **

After the pair made their way carefully down the stairs, they fell into a comfortable silence. The fire had stopped flickering, a subdued orange blush lining the room instead, but neither thought to poke it. John settled into his chair, and Sherlock picked up his violin. He played several of John’s favorites, getting lost in the music.

John took the opportunity to just watch. He watched as Sherlock’s face rose and fell with emotion at each sway and pulse, as his body, elegant and agile, moved gracefully in time, and as his dexterous hand glided his bow along quivering strings.

“Beautiful,” John said softly, imbuing his voice with emotion that he hoped portrayed to Sherlock that he wasn’t only talking about the music.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, the only indication that he had heard John the shy smile and dark blush that crept across his features.

John let the perfectly played music wash over him, his heart floating with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He thought perhaps Sherlock could feel it too, as the trepidation he normally exuded around John seemed to be absent tonight.

The music slowed with what John knew was the last movement of this piece, and he looked at Sherlock one more time. His body was aglow with the dwindling light provided by abating embers. John smiled at the sight before him, sentiment wetting his eyes, and he knew then that he couldn’t allow one more moment to pass where he and Sherlock ignored what was right in front of them.

The last light of the fire ebbed away, and the room was cast in a delicate white glow, the light of the full moon stretching through the windows and grasping on to every surface it could touch. The moonlight shone on Sherlock, forming a luminous halo around his hair. An ethereal creature, unthinkable and gorgeous, but not out of reach. 

The piece came to a gentle end, and Sherlock opened his eyes, immediately finding John’s. They glinted with the same warmth and tenderness John was feeling.

 _Yes_ , John decided. _I’m ready._

“Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT CHILD CARE so please don't use this as an example. Single parents probably should not be getting tipsy late at night, even if they think their kid is going to sleep through the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cut to me frantically watching videos of s4 johnlock so that I can remember how their characters act

_Yes_ , John decided. _I’m ready._

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s voice was pitched so low, John had to read his lips to fully understand him. The moonlight illuminated him in waves, silhouetting his body in a brilliant shimmer. His expression bore such affection that John felt his whole body warm, crests of adoration extending from his heart outward.

John stood and smiled softly. “Come here a minute?”

Sherlock seemed frozen in place momentarily, the hazy silver glow about the room sculpting his features into those of a statue. He spun around abruptly, narrowly avoiding a collision with the desk.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, let me just…” 

He trailed off, strapping the Stradivarius back in its case. He turned around to face John, the space between them stretching like a canyon. His body language was open but the nervous flash in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

John stood still, not wanting to push his boundaries, fragile as they were.

“Thank you again, for tonight. For taking care of Rosie.”

“I told you,” Sherlock tipped up his chin, angling his gaze above John’s head, “it was nothing. You know that I’d… do anything for you both.”

“I know,” John responded honestly. He took a small step forward. “I… two months ago, I meant what I said.”

Sherlock cautiously dropped his line of vision back to John’s, then rolled his eyes. “Fairly obvious, John, as you are standing in the middle of our flat.”

John’s mouth lifted in amusement. “Yes, yes, I did mean what I said about wanting to come home to Baker Street. But, the other thing I mentioned, about… what I want that’s back here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled, attempting to disguise the tension in his voice with a layer of curiosity. “You never did tell me what that was.”

“Well, I think it’s rather obvious,” John smirked, “though I suppose even geniuses need help sometimes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

They were silent for several seconds, basking in the easy back-and-forth between them, even in moments as crucial as this one. The pressure of confession was eclipsed by mutual warmth and adoration. Twilight filled the room, permitting them both this honest candidness, the harsh light of day demanding the appearance of normalcy. 

John looked up, and registered the hope scrawled upon Sherlock’s face, suddenly only inches away. They had drifted closer to each other unawares, the canyon between them narrowing to a meager stream running through a creek during summer, water fighting against its inevitable evaporation. 

Sherlock startled back a bit as the circumstances caught up with him, but John clutched his hand before he slipped away completely. Slowly, John laced their fingers together, and was reminded of two budding flowers, twining around each other as they reached for the sun. He kept his grip loose enough that Sherlock could pull away, but tight enough to display the commitment he was offering.

“Is this alright?” John asked in a hushed voice. He waited patiently for a response, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his own.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed out, barely audible.

John placed his other hand on Sherlock’s wrist, and began inching it up his arm. His fingers glided along the smooth silk of Sherlock’s shirt, and he thought he felt goosebumps rise underneath the fabric. John slowed his pace as he reached Sherlock’s shoulder, then continued up his neck, and finally stopped at the back of his head, threading fingers through conditioned curls.

Sherlock panted shallowly, lips a hair’s breadth apart. His cheeks had grown rosy, and he looked at John with a fondness and devotion that made the buds in John’s chest bloom gracefully, petals fluttering.

Giving Sherlock time enough to back away, John gradually brought their foreheads together. They rested there for several moments, reeling at the points of contact between them. Sherlock raised his free arm and held fast to John’s shoulder. They began to sway slightly, a humble imitation of a waltz, allowing the developing intimacy between them to blossom freely. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his head lie heavier upon John’s. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand tighter. 

“It’s you,” John whispered, traitorous voice wavering though his words were certain. “You’re what I want. In every way, Sherlock, if you’ll have me. I… I love you. God, how I love you.”

Sherlock stilled. “John, I don’t- I don’t know how…”

“It’s okay,” John amended, every word truthful. “You don’t have to. I just needed you to know. I’m tired of making excuses and I needed you to know.”

Sherlock considered this quietly for long moments, surprising John when he finally spoke. “I will, though. Have you.”

Never refusing an opportunity for banter, John teased, “Oh, will you now?” He backed his face away just enough to expose his raised eyebrows.

Sherlock’s cheeks painted themselves a deep red, and he rolled his eyes. “You know what I-”

John cut him off with a soft laugh. “Yes, I do. Thank you.” He pulled Sherlock forward and let their heads fall together again, their eyes dropping closed. 

Trying to regain the sincerity of a minute earlier, John spoke up softly. “I really am gone on you, you know. You’re it for me.”

The flat was silent for some time, bliss curling around the two figures dancing languidly together, melting in the moment.

“John.” It came so quietly, John wasn’t certain he’d actually heard it.

He lifted his head to look at Sherlock, and the air was stolen from his lungs. He was met with deep sea green eyes, pools of color darkened in the limited light between them. They shone with everything John was feeling: pure love and devotion, elation, longing… heat.

“God, _Sherlock_ ,” John was done waiting.

He brought their faces infinitesimally closer, offering Sherlock one final out. Sherlock stared back determinedly. 

_Soft_ , was John’s first thought as their lips crushed, tender but firm.

John released Sherlock’s hand, immediately supplementing it with his hip. Sherlock awkwardly placed his hands on John’s sides, and John smiled into the kiss.

Their mouths moved in tandem, trusting and eager. John shifted his head so that Sherlock’s lower lip was caught between his, and they began exchanging open-mouthed kisses. Hands held on tighter, and John found his chest flush with Sherlock’s. Sherlock hummed, assenting his pleasure.

John lost track of the hour as they kissed, sweet and gentle, passionate and fiery, regretful and longing, communicating all the things not yet said, compensating for lost time.

They finally broke off, foreheads meeting once again, quick breaths mingling. 

“You’re quite good at that, you know.” John smiled playfully.

Sherlock’s answering smile, bashful and beaming, was without a doubt one of the most beautiful sights John had ever seen.

Sherlock pulled back an inch and glanced briefly at the couch. “Could we…?”

They made their way to the sofa, hands involuntarily reaching for the other’s as soon as they sat down.

“I have questions,” Sherlock said in his usual inquisitive manner.

“Of course,” John smiled fondly.

“Why tonight?”

John considered his answer. There had been several reasons. How many instances were there tonight that John’s heart throbbed from just a brief second of eye contact? How many times did John wish he could take Sherlock’s hand, or caress his cheek, or just hold him? When did denying that he wanted Sherlock become such an abominable lie?

“Well,” John cleared his throat. “I’ve been wanting to… you know… for awhile. But it was always- there was always…” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m quite shit at this, aren’t I?”

Sherlock remained silent, but rubbed his thumb along John’s wrist in encouragement. John looked at him gratefully, then went on.

“I didn’t feel ready. Before tonight. I felt like we had some sort of… distance between us. A wall keeping us just out of each other’s reach. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure I had the courage to break it down. I’d assumed that you were tired of waiting, and of me being kind of an arse.”

At this, Sherlock nodded and raised his brows in mock agreement. John swatted Sherlock lightly with his free hand. “Oi! Watch it.”

John waited until they’d both stopped giggling to keep talking.

“ _But_ ,” John continued, “when I walked in, and saw you holding Rosie like that, it just struck a chord with me. The way you took care of her without even being asked, and you, you looked like you were meant to be there, like you _wanted_ to be.” John took a breath. “I… I know you have your moments, Sherlock, but seeing it in person… I could have walked over and kissed you right then and there.”

“Hmm. You should have. Could have been interesting.” 

“I’ll remember that next time,” John smiled, then steeled himself for his next confession. “I came home to the two most important people in my life. I was coming home to my _family_ , and it hurt me that I couldn’t walk up to you and hug you both. And I just couldn’t wait any longer. Wouldn’t wait. I needed this to be settled. And tonight, when you finished playing and looked at me like that, I knew I was finished.”

Sherlock stared silently at his fingers intertwined with John’s, and John grew nervous. “Sorry, I- I was rambling a bit, but I-”

“John.”

Sherlock looked back up, affected. His eyes, silver as a coin in the shifting moonlight, shone with profound emotion, and John was reminded once again of the love he felt for this man. John kept quiet, but tilted his head expectantly.

“You really consider me… family… to you and your daughter?” He said the words slowly, like he couldn’t believe they were possibly true.

Tears pricked at John’s eyes, but he willed them not to fall.

_This is family!_

_That’s_ why _he stays!_

“Sherlock…” he said hoarsely, throat tight. “Yes. Yes, of course you are. You always have been.”

“Good,” Sherlock sniffed, taking John’s hand firmly after clearing his throat. “Now, if we’re quite done with the _feelings_ portion of the evening, I would be amenable to continuing where we left off,” Sherlock said, posh intonation back intact.

“Are you asking for a snog?” John laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“Didn’t you have more questions?”

“They can wait,” Sherlock said, already grabbing at John’s sweater.

“Well, then. Who am I to deny you?”

They moved without haste, kissing the minutes away slowly, reverently. John kept his hands above Sherlock’s waist, reserving himself to exploring the planes of his upper body, taut and warm. The foundation they were building would take time, and John refused to rush it, lest it crumble to dust before them. Time stretched out, the only sign of life outside the walls of the flat the noises of the street below them. Small gasps and huffs of breath escaped them, and John cherished each one. 

An hour, possibly a day, or maybe a lifetime, for all that it mattered, passed before Sherlock gently, reluctantly, pulled away.

John stared. The moon beamed brightly, stars high in the sky by now, and Sherlock’s face was decorated with streaks of light. His lips were dark and swollen, and a faint flush carried all the way up his neck to the arching curve of his cheekbones. Bags drooped under his eyes, which were brighter than John had ever seen them, even in the darkness that enveloped them.

“Gorgeous,” John whispered, enjoying how Sherlock’s blush darkened. “Are we ready for bed, then?”

Sherlock huffed arrogantly. “Sleep is for-” he covered his mouth quickly, a futile attempt at masking the yawn that had interrupted his probable insult.

Blessing the gods above for this perfect display of irony, John smirked. “Yeah, we’re going to bed.”

Sherlock glared at John for a moment before his face went completely blank. Without warning, he shot up out of his seat.

“Right,” he said frantically. “Yes, good, we’ll just… go to bed, then!”

Catching on to Sherlock’s erratic train of thought, John stood up to correct him. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll go upstairs, with Rosie, and you’ll stay in your bed down here.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Oh.”

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock visibly calmed. “Alright.”

“Don’t worry about that yet, love," he smiled. “We can go slow.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, staring blankly at John instead, blinking rapidly. John’s smile dropped, and he frantically started sorting through everything he’d said or done in the moments that had just passed, struggling to figure out where he’d gone wrong. His typhoon of thoughts were cut off when Sherlock spoke.

“...Love?”

 _Oh_ , John realized. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s… fine.”

John’s breath caught as he was rushed back to seven years prior. A young and brilliant, albeit somewhat abrasive, consulting detective flustering at his compliments as they stood over a dead body.

 _Do you know you do that out loud?_ Sherlock’s words echoed in his head. 

Seven years. Seven years, and they’ve only just gotten here. 

_How did I let this happen?_ John began to dissociate. Anguish welled hot and tight in his chest as he lost himself in his lamentations. He was just about to slip over the edge when a hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present.

“John?” Sherlock had concern etched in his brow.

“It’s nothing,” he wiped the frown off his face and kissed Sherlock chastely.

Sherlock’s expression didn’t waver.

 _Right,_ John sighed internally. _Probably best not to start this thing off by lying._

“Fine, it’s not nothing. But… just not tonight, ok? Another time. I promise.”

Sherlock didn’t look completely convinced, but let the subject drop. 

They walked together to the hallway, stopping just outside Sherlock’s door.

“Goodnight, love,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s jaw before slipping his hand free from where their fingers were tangled. “Try to get some sleep.” 

Sherlock nodded silently, and John entered the bathroom, gently closing the door behind him. 

He started the tap, more than ready for a hot shower after the night’s events. He pulled the tab on the faucet, and the loud spray of water slapping ceramic deafened him, but not before he heard a soft “Goodnight, John” and the click of Sherlock’s bedroom door closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking some lovely angst might be in store soon. don't know when but it's bound to happen eventually... I don't make the rules


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's !!! have some angst :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still know nothing about childcare except for some quick google searches so i apologize for any inaccuracies :P  
> also, for reference, i'm working with the assumption that Rosie is somewhere around 18 months old here (two months after tfp)

John woke before his alarm. Sunlight streamed in through the window, masking him in a warm sheet of gold. The previous night’s events played back in his mind, and he smiled, stretching lazily.

He wasted no time getting ready, hoping to spend some time with Sherlock before leaving for work. Rosie stirred as John was pulling on his socks, and yelled a happy _Da!_ as he entered her line of sight.

“Good morning, Rosie-girl!” he smiled at her brightly, unable to do anything else as pure happiness pulsed fervently through his veins. “Today is going to be a good day,” he told her, lifting her out of her cot.

He dressed her in her day clothes, humming to himself as his thoughts drifted to the man downstairs.

“Should we go see what Sherly is up to?” he asked her conspiratorially, a mischievous grin curling at his lips.

“Yah!” she exclaimed excitedly, bouncing in John’s arms.

John made his way quickly down the steps, glee fluttering in his chest as he caught sight of Sherlock at the kitchen table, eyes glued to his microscope. He didn’t react as they entered, preoccupied by his experiment.

“Good morning,” John said pleasantly, aiming for nonchalance as he set Rosie down in her high chair and started preparing breakfast. “What are you studying?” 

“The variance of sclerotic tissue in short grass cells that have been exposed to different external conditions.”

“Mm,” John hummed thoughtfully, taking a closer look and noticing that the stage of the microscope was empty. “I see. Is that why there’s no slide under the lens, then?”

Sherlock froze, seemingly embarrassed about being caught out.

“Sorry, love,” John chuckled affectionately. “Didn’t mean to give you away just then.” He moved to run his free hand through Sherlock’s hair, but Sherlock flinched at the touch.

John dropped his teasing instantly, uncertainty filling the vacancy in his heart occupied just seconds earlier by fondness.

“Hey. Something wrong?”

Sherlock looked up at John slowly, disconnected. The bags under his eyes were deeper than they were last night, a grotesque frown sinking his cheeks, and his hair flung in all different directions, as if he’d stayed awake all night tugging at it.

“Sherlock…” John reached for his face, but he turned head, avoiding John’s hand. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock suddenly shot out of his seat, chair scraping against the floor with a loud _scrrrtchh_.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said too quickly, his back facing John. “I have to go.”

He grabbed his Belfast and rushed out of the flat before he could be interrogated further. John stood in stunned silence, startled out of his trance only by the loud slam of the front door one story below.

He glanced down at Rosie, who was mirroring his own confused expression. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s gotten into him either.”

He walked over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the direction Sherlock was going in, but Sherlock had already disappeared out of sight.

John sighed. _What the hell was that about?_

 _Did you really think he could handle another rejection?_ The little voice in his head was back. 

_But I didn’t reject him!_ He argued with himself. _Last night was…_ His thought trailed off as he remembered how perfect the previous night had been, at least in his mind.

_He gave you his heart once before, and you dismantled it. How did you expect him to act this time around?_

_Dismantled?_ John thought confusedly. _What are you… oh._

Guilt and regret ached in John’s core as the memory came flooding back.

  
  
  


+++

  
  
  


**_2 YEARS EARLIER_ **

Sherlock released John from his hold. They had been dancing for two hours, Sherlock taking the lead as John worked out the kinks in his technique.

“You should practice for the actual event,” Sherlock said, exhaustion and dejection painted colorlessly across his face.

 _Is he doing this on purpose?_ John thought to himself, perplexed by the raw emotions Sherlock had been laying bare the entire night.

“Right,” John only nodded in return, refusing to face him.

He gasped lightly when lithe fingers grasped his shoulder, but reached for Sherlock’s hip anyway. The music began, and they danced together in unison. There were no stumbles, no stepping on toes, no reason to stop. The song ended, but they continued dancing. They drew each other closer, Sherlock’s chin coming to rest on John’s shoulder. The light of the fire burned bright behind them.

“You know, I think I’m getting pretty good at this,” John laughed, guiding Sherlock with more vigor.

No response came, but they continued to step gracefully together. It wasn’t until small quakes ricocheted through John’s body that he grew concerned. Sherlock was shaking.

“Sherlock?” he asked, stilling his movements. “What’s going o-”

Piercing the quiet that had encased them, tearing through John’s eardrums, and forcing time to a screeching halt, a sob tore from Sherlock’s throat.

“Sherlock!” John tried to pull away but Sherlock’s face was latched tightly to his collar. “Please look at me.”

Sherlock shifted slowly away from the crook of John’s neck and John caught a glance of two small dark spots on his shirt where Sherlock’s eyes had been.

“Yes?” He asked imperiously, staring daggers at John despite the tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“I…” John had no clue what to think, much less what to say.

“You what?... What? Go on! What could you possibly say at this moment that would change anything?”

Sherlock waited, like a small part of him overruled the rest, forced him to see if John would be brave enough to respond.

He wasn’t.

“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock sighed, then wiped his face so quickly John questioned whether the tears had ever existed in the first place. The only evidence that remained of the event were the quickly drying dots on John’s shirt. 

“Let’s continue,” Sherlock went on, composure intact, any trace of sadness that had plagued his voice already gone. “You still need work. Your _wife_ will have high expectations.”

John stood dumbfounded as Sherlock moved away and fiddled with the speaker, the only noise in the room the loud crackling of the fire. Had that really just happened?

  
  
  


+++

  
  
  


**_PRESENT TIME_ **

John sighed as he walked from the clinic to the nearest tube station. Getting thrown up on twice in one day was not his favorite part of doctoring.

The shadows of the trees and structures about him grew long as the sun threatened to dip below the skyline. The traffic was heavy with the end-of-workday rush, and John watched as people entered and exited buildings around him, all in a rush, all in their own worlds.

He checked his phone one more time, disappointed but not surprised to find that Sherlock hadn’t returned any of his calls or texts. He clenched his fist, anxiety selfishly eating away at him now that he had nothing to distract himself with.

 _Huh,_ John thought sardonically, _never thought I’d_ want _to see an oddly shaped mole right about now. What has Sherlock Holmes done to me?_

As soon as he was safely seated on the tube, John opened his contacts list, searching for Molly’s name. Desperate, he taps the _Call_ button. It’s three rings before she answers.

“John. Did you need something?”

“Hi, yes. Have you seen Sherlock today, by chance?”

“He was at Bart’s for a short while this morning, but Greg called with a case and he left… Is everything alright? He seemed a little on edge.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Just peachy. Got to go, Molls.” He hung up before she had a chance to say another word. It was rude, he knew, but he had two children to deal with at the moment. Apologies could wait.

Anger began to simmer beneath John’s skin. He’d wanted to talk more with Sherlock tonight, smooth out some of the aches and pains that rumpled the fabric of their relationship; tell the truth, explain why he made the decisions he’d made, why he’d so carelessly unraveled the fragile threads holding them together… He’d wanted to apologize. Now, the chance might be lost.

 _How could Sherlock give up so easily?_ he thought accusingly. _Before we even gave it a real shot. All because of a stupid dance!_

As soon as the thought escaped into the cavern of John’s mind, he wished he could take it back. The memory of that night stung at him, guilt curling ugly and deep in the pit of his stomach.

He walked the short rest of the way to Baker street from the station, his ire cooling to a dull annoyance that pricked at his edges. He knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door, and she answered with a cautious look on her face.

“Still nothing from him?”

“Of course not,” John quipped petulantly, then looked down in apology, irritated with himself for letting his emotions get the better of him. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

She only raised one eyebrow, opening the door wider to let him inside. He caught sight of Rosie sitting on the floor, a stuffed toy in each hand as she swung them around and giggled. His aggravation lessened, love and warmth spreading through him and melting the ice in his chest.

“Hi, sweetheart!” he greeted her affectionately. He picked her up and hefted her into the air, making her laugh some more. “Did we have fun with Mrs. Hudson today? Hm?”

She squealed excitedly in what John assumed was a _yes_ then hugged his neck tightly when he lowered her back down to his chest.

“Thank you again so much for looking after her,” John turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson, who was watching them fondly. “I really should find a permanent sitter.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! She’s such a sweet girl.” She smiled adoringly at Rosie before adding, “And you know I enjoy the company.”

John returned her smile. He considered for a moment before speaking again.

“You know, I was going to take Rosie for a short stroll through the park before it got too dark. Would you like to join us?”

Her face lit up, and John noted how she immediately looked ten years younger.

“That’d be lovely! Why don’t you wash up a bit, and I’ll get her pram ready.”

John set Rosie back down with her toys and made his way to the door, smiling when he heard Mrs. Hudson’s jovial “What a dear” as she went about preparing for their walk.

After John had washed his face and changed into a fresh jumper, he checked for his wallet, keys and phone, patting the pockets of his jeans. Bitterness ate away at him as his palm pressed against the thin rectangle in his front left pocket, and he pulled out his phone, scrolling through the texts he’d sent to Sherlock throughout the day.

  
  


**_Sent 7:49_ **

Sherlock? What was that about?

**_Sent 7:57_ **

Do you want to at least tell me where you’re going?

**_Sent 8:34_ **

Alright, I’ve got to go to work. Text me.

**_Sent 12:16_ **

Is it something I did? If this is about last night, we can talk about it.

**_Sent 12:21_ **

If you’re having second thoughts, that’s okay.

**_Sent 15:13_ **

Please, Sherlock.

**_Sent 15:14_ **

One word. So I at least know you’re okay.

**_Sent 16:54_ **

Leaving soon. You going to be at home?

  
  


He shook his head, embarrassment at his own desperation and renewed frustration at Sherlock conjugating and flushing all rationality out of him. Giving his mind over to his heart, he typed and sent one more text before logic could rein him in.

  
  


**_Sent 17:48_ **

Fine. Be like that if you want. I’m taking Rosie for a walk in Regent’s Park. 

  
  


John shoved his phone into his pocket, and made his way back downstairs.

  
  
  


+++

  
  
  


The walk was lovely. A cool breeze brushed by them, providing a pleasant contrast to the soft heat that the setting sun supplied. Spring was just around the corner, and though it should still be cold and showering about this time of year, London was blessed with a rare day of no rain.

They were sitting on a park bench, enjoying the weather and watching Rosie play with the daisies weeded into the grass when John’s phone rang. His heartbeat picked up a bit when he read the caller ID.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” he apologized, standing to take the call in private. “I’ll just be a moment.” 

He walked until he stood under the shade of a nearby tree, listening to its rustling leaves before tapping the _Answer_ button. 

“Greg?”

“John.” He sounded anxious. John tensed. “We need you over at Millbank and Horseferry. Sherlock’s had a bit of an incident.”

“What _kind_ of incident?”

At Lestrade’s response, John’s whole body went weak, threatening to shut down on him. He tightened his grip on his phone, which he’d nearly dropped.

“I’m on my way.”

He hung up and walked swiftly back to the park bench.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ve gotta go, Sherlock’s… well, he’s being Sherlock. Could you-”

“Go,” she smiled knowingly. “I’ve got her.” 

“Thank you. Thank you,” he said, giving Rosie a quick kiss on her forehead and making his way hurriedly towards the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter originally came out to over 5000 words when i wrote it so i decided to split it in half and upload it as two separate chapters. enjoy the cliffhanger lol


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